


How Fragile We Are.

by springburn



Series: The Thick of It mini-fics [43]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Parents and Children, Thought Processes, love and caring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:32:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5474612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springburn/pseuds/springburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little Jamie Tucker had a new bike for Christmas, he can't wait to try it out......</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Fragile We Are.

**Author's Note:**

> This was another great prompt from Petersgal 
> 
> "So here goes...when little jamie falls from his new bike he got for christmas he is in a bad way..i know i know,its angst but i havent had one for ages,so please dont hate me...:)"
> 
> Definitely don't hate you! And I know you love your angst!! 
> 
> I'm writing this in a staccato form. The reason for this is simply because I want the reader to follow Malcolm's thought processes. Jumping from one thought to another. One word focus. He doesn't know what day it is. 
> 
> I hope it reads okay, and the style isn't too abrasive, but I want to get inside the mind of the parent. 
> 
> This is also based on my real life professional experience. 
> 
> I wrote this quickly as the idea came this morning and I've literally written it straight out with very little drafting.

HOW FRAGILE WE ARE.

 

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. 

Malcolm's head rested on his hand, elbow on the arm of the chair.  
A fitful doze.  
The elbow slipped, his head jerked. His eyes opened. 

For a moment he couldn't remember where he was, but that feeling lasted for mere seconds.  
Then the tide of pain all came rushing back.  
The rhythmic pulse of the machines soon bought it home to him.  
Fuck.  
He stretched.  
His neck ached, his head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton wool.  
Rising, he crossed to the bedside. 

So small.  
The bed so large. Lost in the middle of it. So utterly helpless.  
Tubes. Wires. Machines.  
His boy.

The pale little body. In Tardis pyjama trousers.  
One tiny hand black and blue, where they'd tried unsuccessfully to find a viable vein.  
Skinny chest lifting and falling. Sticky circles plastered across it. Attached.  
It could almost be sci-fi. Except this is real, horribly real.  
The machine doing the work, life at the flick of a switch. 

Beep, beep, beep. 

Skin almost transparent, so delicate.  
Beside the bed on the floor, on a mattress, lay his wife.  
Sleeping, completely exhausted.  
Drained of all emotion.  
As he was himself.  
How long had it been?  
No idea.  
Time ceased to have any meaning.  
Hours became days, and the world outside continued on its stupid, pointless, relentless course, as it must, as it had to, but for them time had stopped. 

 

oOo

They took turns.  
He must never, never be alone. Just in case.  
Just in case what? 

Malcolm didn't even go there, couldn't make himself contemplate that it could be a remotely possible scenario.  
There was no outcome that wouldn't be positive.......except that one.  
That they might lose him, that he might be taken from them, and that wasn't going to happen, not while Malcolm had breath in his body.  
Because somehow that just wasn't an option. 

At home, he would shower, standing under the flow of warm water, hands against the tiled wall.  
Shave.  
The face that stared back at him out of the mirror, he didn't recognise.  
Eyes red and swollen with tiredness, peering out at him as though from far away.  
Detached, dull and lifeless. No tears. That would be weakness.  
He was a man. A father, albeit a shite one. He must be strong. 

Change of clothes.  
Grab a coffee. 

Go back to that room, with its disinfectant smell, it's harsh fluorescent lighting and the beep, beep, beep.

He was an automaton.  
He hadn't eaten or slept, not really.  
Both he and Sam.........hollow eyes. Drawn faces. Gaunt and expressionless. On autopilot. 

It took a while for him not to rush to the bedside every time the machine seemed to hiccup. A blip out of sync and he'd be up, standing there, looking down, waiting, holding his breath.  
Then the beat would return, he'd let out the air, sink back down, relief palpable.  
Now he was used to it.  
Now, when he heard it, he would just raise his eyes, and wait for the pulse to return to normal, for the counter to flick to something reassuring.  
Then he would close his eyes and silently thank the gods......it was okay. 

Beep, beep, beep. 

 

oOo

At Jamie's house, where Robbie and Grace were staying, it was hard.  
Virtually impossible to carry on any semblance of normality.  
Ellie tried to feed him, she meant well, but the thought of food made him want to throw up.  
Robbie was tearful all the time. He was the quiet one, just as clever as the other two but not as outgoing.  
It's funny how children naturally gravitate to one parent or the other. There was no real reason for it, no favouritism, but Robbie was like Sam.  
If he was upset, or hurt, or frightened, it was Sam he wanted. He was missing his mummy, terribly.  
He wanted her, and Malcolm just wasn't enough. His cuddles weren't mummy's cuddles, his smell wasn't her smell. His voice not hers.  
Grace was the opposite. Articulate way beyond her years. Daddy's girl, all the way.  
Malcolm swore to God, that child was actually a forty year old trapped in a child's body.  
Her little face, so serious, so concerned. The feel of her skinny arms around his neck, the softness of her fluff of hair, those golden curls.  
"It'll be alright, Daddy. I know it will."  
Jesus Christ.  
What he wanted to do was bury his face into that sweet silken cloud and cry.  
But he couldn't.  
Instead he held her close. Kissed her rosy cheek. Tried to smile, tried to reassure. Tell her he loved her.  
Then get back into the car and drive away. 

 

oOo

 

Malcolm was angry.  
Fucking livid.  
Why?  
Fucking why?  
That's what he kept asking himself.  
What kind of fucking parent was he?  
A parent who couldn't protect his child. Couldn't keep him safe.  
A failure.  
Someone who allowed this to happen, didn't prevent it, didn't foresee. He let his child down. 

Just let it be him instead. Take the pain and the hurt and the fucking injustice and give it all to him instead.  
Anything.......anything......but do not punish his child.  
This little vulnerable innocent kid. Who had done nothing. Who didn't deserve this.  
Let it all come onto him in his place, let his son be okay, and give the suffering to him. He would sell his very soul, give everything he had.  
Everything.  
Just make it be okay. 

Beep, beep, beep.

 

oOo

 

Moments when he did finally close his eyes were the worst of all.  
It wasn't sleep exactly, it wasn't even a doze, not really. His lids would droop, from the sheer weight of exhaustion. A few moments of drifting, almost floating. An ethereal dreamlike state. A haze in which the whole scene played itself out over and over again, and he was watching as if he were the audience in a play, unable to influence the action, a bystander, a hapless voyeur.  
He and Sam. Front row seats. 

"I hope Celtic win today!" His piping voice over his shoulder as he cycled away, legs like pistons on the pedals, round and round, gleeful, ecstatic.  
His new bike. A presence from Father Christmas.  
"Where does he get this from? With the football?" Malcolm laughed.  
He wasn't into sport at all. Never had been.  
A teacher at school once called him 'spastic' because he didn't like sport. Being in a grammar school and not liking football, or rugby was the next step down from being a poof!  
But his eldest son......loved football, was passionate about it. Good at it too. Fantastic coordination. Where the fuck did that come from?  
Malcolm thought it might be his godfather and namesake's influence. Jamie McDonald loved the 'beautiful game'. Had followed Celtic since he was a wee lad. Shared his passion with Little Jamie. They were like two old men when they discussed the match. Malcolm found it all highly amusing.  
The park was quiet. It was January. His wife beside him, her hand in his. Malcolm could feel the warmth of her fingers. 

What was the first thing he'd heard?  
Not a cry, or a sound, just a clink of the bike chain, a kind of metallic clunk. A wheel spinning.  
Such a simple thing. He hit a tree stump. Flew over the handlebars.  
The doctor said, it was lucky he hadn't snapped his neck.  
The bike helmet saved him.  
But that sickening moment. Funny at first, both parents running over, laughing.  
"You're alright Jamie! Get up!"  
But he didn't.  
Smiles wiped from their faces.  
Reaching his side, seeing his eyes glaze over and disappear up into his head.  
Terror.  
Utter and complete.

Everything after that, just a blur. Even when daydreaming those memories were not in Malcolm's data base.  
A waking nightmare.  
Ambulance. Casualty. The waiting.  
All a complete fog.  
Clinging to each other, as the medics worked on him.  
Limp. Lifeless. Colourless. Lips blue.  
At one point Malcolm actually thought he was gone.  
He'd never forget that one single moment as long as he lived.  
Never.  
Thank god Sam didn't see......but he did. 

At some point Jamie and Ellie arrived, to take the other two. Be there, when they were most needed. To do whatever they could. 

"Alright Champ?" Jamie touched the boy's cold little hand. Covering it with his own. Squeezed his best friend's shoulder.  
Only a phone call away. Anytime. Anything.  
Thank god for them both. 

oOo

 

So here he was. 

Still waiting. Not daring to hope. To terrified to even think. In case those thoughts should be negative.  
IT WILL BE OKAY. IT WILL. 

The MRI showed no bleeding on the brain.  
That was a good sign.  
That represented Hope. 

The brain was bruised, when the skull hit the ground the brain kept moving inside its bony box. Smacked against the side. Like a tennis ball hitting a wall.  
It was swollen.  
That was not good. 

So, a drug induced coma.  
To allow the swelling to subside.  
Damage?  
Fuck knows. The doctors didn't.  
It was all in the lap of the gods. Could be bad, could mean loss of function, changes in personality, memory loss, palsy, fits......fuck knows what else. But equally, could be absolutely fine. No lasting damage whatever.  
Please God, let it be that.  
Please. 

 

Malcolm woke with a start. His leg jerking at the knee.  
Eyes open......staring around wildly......where was he?  
Fuck.  
He passed a hand across his face, rubbing his tired eyes.  
If only this buzzing in his head would stop. 

Beep, beep, beep. 

Sam's face close to his. Fingers brushing his cheek.  
"It's okay Malcolm, it's only me!" Her hand closed over his own.  
"Shit! Did I doze off? Fuck!" He made to rise, but she stopped him.  
"Sit still, nothing's happened. Still the same. No change." Her face registered deep sympathy......because she knew......knew what he was feeling.  
The guilt, the failure, the beating himself up......because she was feeling it too. Doing exactly the same.  
What kind of mother was she?  
How could this happen to her little boy, THEIR little boy.  
So precious. So loved.  
She felt every bit as powerless as he did. 

oOo

Reducing the medication.  
Like waking Sleeping Beauty.  
This was the culmination of all their hopes, all their fears.  
What would their son be when he opened his eyes? IF he opened his eyes.  
Still their son, no matter what.  
Whatever he was, nothing would change.  
Still loved, still cherished, they'd take whatever they could get.  
They would accept whatever was thrown at them and they would make the best of it. 

None of this had been spoken, of course, it was a conversation that neither wanted nor needed to have. 

It was a future uncertain, but it was a future.  
One which could so easily have been taken away.  
How fragile life is. 

How precious. 

oOo

Both standing on either side of his bed.  
Waiting.  
A long breath inhaled and held.  
Somehow holding it together, by sheer willpower alone.  
Strength neither knew they even possessed. 

A slight stirring, the merest flicker of an eyelid.  
Tubes removed.  
Breathing on his own. 

A little fighter.  
How could one so small be so indomitable?  
He was his father's son.  
No doubt about it.  
Two fingers to the world.  
Fuck you!  
I'm still here. 

A glance from one parent to the other.  
Eyes locked across the bed.  
No words necessary.  
A silent prayer, offered up.  
Please.  
Let this nightmare end. Let it be okay. 

Two slate grey orbs, exactly like his Dad's, staring out, looking at each of them.  
Slight confusion......what's going on? Where am I? Questions......without words. 

"Hello my little man. How d'ya feel?" Malcolm's voice trembled.

Seconds ticked by like weeks.

"Did Celtic win Daddy?" 

 

Fin.


End file.
